


Image Training

by lugoji



Category: Dragon Ball
Genre: Bondage, Cloaca Sex, Hands-free Orgasm, M/M, Masturbation, Sort Of, Wet Dream, frieza has a frussy and you will Like It, he's having a fantasy in the cocoon, he's just as disgusted by this as we all should probably be, he's not actually trans but his anatomy is a very transparent standin for ftm junk, his species is monogender, i think they produce via pseudogamy, it's a pussy tho, look it up it's kind of neat, maybe?????, poor guy's pent up, touch starvation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-12 23:28:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29018976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lugoji/pseuds/lugoji
Summary: Frieza does his best to bide his time in Hell after he dies again. Unfortunately for him, a cocoon is a terrible place to be stuck when you're a pent-up ball of rage.
Relationships: Frieza/Son Goku (Dragon Ball)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 20





	Image Training

**Author's Note:**

> hope this isn't too wild for you guys lol. frieza's interiority is super melodramatic which makes him difficult to write but also really fun.
> 
> can you tell i'm a trans guy who's projecting? perhaps
> 
> if you see a bunch of minor edits happening over the next few days it's because i'm a perfectionist and the prose needs to Flow, dammit!!! just enjoy the porn
> 
> comments are always super appreciated!!

Frieza had spent most of his life knowing he’d go to Hell. Not that he gave much thought to the existence of an afterlife— if there was one, he'd figured it was just as droll as being flesh and blood— but being of particularly villainous renown he had long since been prepared for all sorts of punishment after his eventual death. 

What he had not been prepared for was the parade _._

Never before had he heard such awful music. Really, calling it music was too generous, considering its quality: it was relentlessly, cruelly saccharine, a veritable shock to the system. He hadn't even gotten the courtesy of visiting the Other World waiting room this time around. Instead he'd been plucked from his painful death and plopped right back into his tree, body intact and nerves still burning, stitched together from bits and pieces. Now he was again surrounded by a facsimile of happiness that he couldn’t steal, or touch, or stop. It wasn't real, and that was what truly made it torture— they proclaimed their glee constantly, but none of Frieza's wardens could feel anything. He knew they couldn't. He had tried to needle them into breaking like he did everyone else, but the blasted automatons pranced and frolicked nonetheless, ignoring his barbs completely in favor of their tinny trumpets. The nerve. At least they seemed to find enough pleasure in welcoming him back home.

Obviously, being in the situation that he found himself, Frieza had to find ways to pass the time. His favorite entertainment was image training.

He had gone over his first battle with Son Goku innumerable times during his first stint in the cocoon, memorizing it like the steps to a dance. Years had fallen away to Frieza training like this. It was how he'd maintained what little sanity he had left; he analyzed his own mistakes and rectified each one of them in sequence so he could enjoy the taste of killing the Super Saiyan a thousand times over, in myriad different ways. Now, with the bar raised so much higher, he’d moved on to their latest spat, and on to learning how to counteract the Saiyans’ new divine abilities.

"Super Saiyan God... what a _joke_..."

Blue was a terrible color on Goku. This was a conclusion Frieza arrived at usually before stabbing him in the gut. Or strangling him with a gilded tail. Or clawing his eyes to shreds. He was steadily growing a greater understanding of his own power, which had been suppressed since his youth, and each successive triumph was more satisfying than the last. 

Until they weren’t.

It was with deep, existential dread that Frieza realized he was getting diminishing returns from his murder fantasies. The blazing fire of vengeance was finally beginning to sputter, choked into embers by isolation and self-loathing. After the catastrophe that had been Golden Frieza’s debut, spending so much time attempting to better himself felt almost juvenile. These consolation victories meant nothing. He could kill Goku as many times as he pleased in his own head, but what good did that do him if they never met again? 

This time, though, his mind wandered somewhere new. This time Vegeta was nowhere to be seen, and he was back on crumbling Planet Namek. The first sign that something was off was the fine relief of Goku’s _detestably_ chiseled muscles, shining under the planet’s fiery death throes. His usual glare, too, was troublingly sensual. Instead of throwing punches Goku moved toward his foe with determined confidence, gaze fixed and smoldering, stalking him like a jungle cat ready to pounce. Then, to his utter dismay, Frieza felt a pressing heat take root in his lower abdomen.

The man who single-handedly toppled his intergalactic empire grabbed him by the arms, pinned him against the broken ground, and—

_Oh._

Well, _something_ inside him was burning, but it definitely wasn’t vengeance.

Under the soft bundle of his cocoon, the near-imperceptible seam between Frieza’s legs began to part, opening to expose its blushing purple contents. He cussed under his breath. His body was already preparing for penetration that would never come, cloaca twitching as it rushed to become wet, and above it his thin shaft snaked from its hood, erect and pulsing with need. It happened so fast he felt more a concubine than a prince. How positively fucking undignified.

How long had it been, anyway? He’d never had an especially wild libido, but down here he could hardly move his hands, and if Sorbet was correct he’d been _down here_ for, in total, over a decade. Masturbation wasn’t an easy task when you were swaddled like a hatchling, so he hadn’t made many attempts, and during his all-too-brief resurrection he had never once thought to attend to the more carnal of his biological imperatives. For what felt like an eternity, his only lust had been for blood. Now all it took was a few stray thoughts for him to unravel.

For the love of—no wonder he was so high-strung. He hadn’t had an orgasm in _years_. Should he indulge? Could he, even?

Well, it wasn’t as though he had anywhere to be.

Goku had a very nice body. Frieza had seen much of it during their fights, thanks to the disarray of his clothing. Of course, he had been in no state to appreciate it then, but the picture was still clear as day in his mind, as it had been since he’d been sent to solitary confinement. Being the commander of an army populated by an endless variety of aliens, he was well aware of the typical build of mammalian genitalia. Frieza was no wallflower. He had given, and taken, plenty. And so it happened that he imagined Goku again, prying his lips apart, pushing a firm, warm cock into his wet, starved hole. 

(It was big, of course. Frieza knew what he liked.)

With each imagined thrust, his insides shivered, sore and tender with neglect. His cock pressed against his belly. Just thinking of the noises they’d make together was enough to get him moaning, so with that on his mind he leaned his head back, closing his eyes and rutting as best as he could manage. The fairies were giving him a midday reprieve. He had half an hour at most to get this nonsense over with.

Good thing he knew how to run on borrowed time.

 _The softhearted Saiyan intended to punish him for his villainy. This thought filled Frieza with delight. Under normal circumstances he did not put much stock in villains, or heroes, or even in the Cold Dynasty he'd inherited— only in his own incredible power— because allowing those roles to exist for real was terribly boring, and an admission of failure to boot. But this **wasn't** real_ _anyhow, and he **ached** for that punishment, and if the Emperor of Space was to debase himself he would do the damn thing proper. Immediately Goku’s thrusting was hard, fast, violent almost to the point of violation. He drove into Frieza as far as he could, over and over again, sheathing himself to the hilt until their hips met, and Frieza relished in how their breaths hitched together. Right here, right now, they both wanted each other, and just about nothing would get between them but their own thick skins._

_And oh, did it feel good to be full. Frieza let himself be manhandled, ceding to the Saiyan's strength as he was flipped onto his belly, prime to be fucked well and truly senseless. Holding the little lord's wrists behind his back in a fierce vice-grip, Goku made a show of biting his neck, hard enough to draw blood, then went to work on his member, pinching the bright-purple tip of it between two fingers. He rolled it in quick jagged motions, before moving down to its base, squeezing with each rough upstroke. When he arrived up top again the_ _pad of his thumb brushed the hypersensitive barbs enveloping the head, attacking achy nerve clusters with sweet, searing contact. After that, the hand progressed backward, to the underside of his tail right where it met his groin, and kneaded slow circles into Frieza’s smooth skin, keeping the appendage lifted up and out of the way like it belonged to a beast in heat._

He had no idea if Goku had any skill with his fingers, but his deft performance on the battlefield told Frieza it was a safe assumption to make. Inside the cocoon, his swollen cock jumped with need. Poor thing. It wanted to be touched so _badly!_ He tried to worm his hand downward, to at least reach far enough to rub its quivering head, but his prison was too restrictive. He squirmed. This was a whole new kind of Hell. In all fairness, there was something distinctly alluring about being trapped this way, hyper-aware of how his body responded to every thought, every twitch of the hips, measuring his own arousal like a science— but, gods, it ached so _much._ Whatever this was, it wasn't enough. He wanted the real thing almost as badly as he wanted to cum. He _needed_ it.

_At least he could still see it. Those firm, powerful hands tracing his abdomen, drawing tally down his midline. The way Goku, being Goku, would groan or grunt or stutter, pausing to extract himself and hook fingers into Frieza’s cunt, swirling them around to stir its viscous slick. He had seldom ever been touched gently, but he knew Goku was a man of noble predilections, so he could dream about it. Maybe they would kiss. Maybe there'd be tongue. Tenderness revolted Frieza almost by instinct, and that made the idea of it even more titillating. Getting rough was par for the course. Playing nice and meaning it? That was forbidden. Taboo._

How intimate this fantasy had become. To want something like that, to even give it more than a second’s thought—it was disgraceful! Ashamed, Frieza screwed his eyes shut, and focused harder.

_The feeling of being taken. The sound of their sexes slapping together, echoing throughout the ruins of the planet he'd destroyed. The way Goku's strange golden hair flowed around his head like flame, framing his pretty face—_

_Was_ Goku pretty? Frieza wasn’t sure. But Saiyans, despite their tendencies toward battle and conquest, also tended to be roguishly handsome. Besides, he could feel his pulse beating in his pussy. Whatever kernels of truth might have spawned this wet dream didn't matter anymore.

_—sweat dripping from the Super Saiyan’s golden brow— both their auras crackling with fury— sweet nothings shared quietly between them— “you feel so good, Lord Frieza—!”_

Frieza tried desperately to buck his hips, to find something substantial to grind against, but there was no damned space and even less friction _—_ instead he was forced to clench his pelvic floor in a stumbling rhythm, and mewled pitifully as his own natural lubricant dribbled between his thighs. His breaths came short and shallow, all of them ending in quiet whimpers, shaky from how hard his heart kicked against his ribs. He felt like he was going to explode. Frankly, he was shocked he’d been able to get this close with no hands. Perhaps he had fallen even farther than he’d thought.

_Roaring, Goku erupted inside of him, and—_

"Oh-!"

He threw his head back and cried out, loudly and without restraint, pitching forward as he spilled over the edge of his orgasm. The contractions were surprisingly intense despite the lack of traditional stimulation, probably owing to how long it had been, and he gasped as his cunt spasmed open and shut and open again; the amount of slick he’d produced lent the motion a disgustingly lewd _squelch_ , but it was only after the undulations subsided into little shivers of afterglow that he thought to be repulsed by it. 

He’d probably made such a mess. 

Was he going to have to sit like this forever? They’d said his punishment would be greater this time around after the stunt he pulled back on Earth. If he was forced to stew in his own juices for the next hundred years, he’d have a word or two with King Yemma.

Oh, well. He could worry about that later. For now, it seemed the parade was about to start again. In the distance Frieza could see a swarm of those blasted pixies emerging from their flowerbuds.

Nothing killed the mood quicker than that.

  
  
  
  



End file.
